


In the Field of Blooming Iris

by Shinzhon



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Introspection, some blood and things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinzhon/pseuds/Shinzhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war was over, and we were marching home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Field of Blooming Iris

Diary of Cyrion, third son of Isildur, Heir of Gondor.

Year 3434 of the Second Age, twentieth day of Víressë 

The war has started since so many years but it feels like it's amplifying ; swallowing every known land. As I am neither the heir nor a competent fighter, I can only rely on those writings to make myself known. But what for, really ? I do not believe that much in the future, and what is it for me ? Do I have to take a wife and have a quiet, dull, empty and incomplete life ? 

Galloping forward on that muddy road, bit by the wind, wearing that glittering armor as made for mightiest of kings, I think about what I wrote, weeks and months before. Back in those days I was but a pitiful boy, full of anger towards my entire family; I still am, but the pain of realization did fade away. And what a family, may I say. For I am the son of Isildur, himself son of Elendil, Numenorrean of blood, born to become a great man. But the blood running cold in my veins at this hour is so poor in might that I must confess, I may not be that knight of pure heart and valor I once dreamed to be. I fear not reaching a higher status than the one I'm currently having. The Third prince... Aratan's preceding me, as for Elendur in the first place. He will be the one succeeding father. I cannot blame him, although I still resent my place as a mere replacement. I am doomed to follow him up until my death, dumb, unsignificant. 

Year 3433 of the Second Age, first day of Narquelië

The Elves did ally to the strength of Men. For now and onwards, the High-Kind of the Noldor, Gil-Galad, is with us. He is the embodiement of perfection, may I say. An Elf, for short. Wise and tall, powerful, something I have always dreamed to become, the true embodiment of a king. I am a man, and I may be instructed, you can judge by those present lines that I am not the wisest. 

Life did give me a lot of things, truly ; I am ever grateful of my situation. I am not in position to grieve and crying upon my birth. I am noy as strong as my brothers, surely. The whispers ever present in this city describe me as plainer than Araten and weaker than Elendur. Weaker, ever weaker. Smaller too, I reckon I can manage with improvisation and sadly, I do have more victories with rocks on the ground against petty thieves in the streets than a sword in hand against various instructors. What have I done for deserving such a grin-inducing gift of the Valar ? If I where asked, so to speak, to choose any qualities among my ancestor's, I'd jump on the courage and the strength. It would permit me not to complain. As I am complaining now, ever grateful as I am. 

The freezing wing goes through the metal plates of my armor and makes my pale skin shiver. The sky is grey, seemingly lifeless. I am ever grateful for the end of the war. And I repeat myself ; it didn't end thanks to me of course. And if I where asked, I'd gladly answer that this damned war isn't yet over. In my heart, in my bones, I feel the remnants of it. In the soldier's faces, in the dampness of the lands, in that stilness of the time. Everything seemed stopped, everything seemed quiet, between those grey trees and bushes. Lonely purple flowers where sprouting from here and there. Irises, why there ? Why now, at the ending of winter ? 

I am so eager to arrive in Rivendell, Imladris, as the elves are calling it. This peace, that tranquility reining there. I care not about matters of the new peace, they may be as tremendous as the war itself. 

I have been told that the High-King did fall in battle and that his lieutenant and friend, Elrond, had taken the lead. The title of High-King died with his last posessor, as it seems. Everything seems so rushed about, had to understand. Looking from afater, nothing is really complicated, but something blocks me, as nothingness takes my thoughts at the idea of understanding. I would like to talk, to argue, to yell, to stand up, I'd say so much things. So many ideas and laws I would pass, so many speeches and stories I would tell. I do feel admiration for the Kings of the past, as we seem to kneel before them, statues of perfection, a date in the far past. Men that walked like giants of this earth. It is still a dream for me, to be remembered as one of their kind, as one of their own. 

Year 3434 of the Second Age, eleventh day of Víressë 

Sauron's defenses have been pushed back from Rivendell. This city is now out of danger, but still, nothing is done yet. Elves are giving their lives for that war ; I know that our opponents are strong and that we fight for all what is sacred and enlightened on this earth but it makes me think of what I'd do if I had the possibility to live forever. I'd go on a calm place, maybe, and grow flower for all of eternity. I'd never go to any city or town, everybody would die around me but I wouldn't care as I would know nobody. I'd live as the coward I'm dreaming to be, actually. I won't say young forever too, nobody does. Elendur is know 27 and currently growing moody. My father stays my father, young and ready to lead our house. But those fights are weakening him, I feel it. Nobody goes through a war, sees it, and then goes back, smiling and says that nothing happened. People may do that but in truth, their hearts are blackened forever. I'm not seeing any battles so far, and I'm ever glad. My brothers and father, for I see them go and go back by the gates ever so often, are seeing it as a close friend would do. I am a Captain of Gondor, speaking of that. And I worry, as much as a brother would do, as powerless as I am, between papiers ans quills. 

Never would this peace be so far from where I am now. Everything is terrifying, everything is ever-dark. I want to settle down, to put my armor down, to throw my sword into the river. I want to sleep. I know I souldn't say that, think about it, I am the son of a king. Even the third one, it makes no matter. 

Year 3434 of the Second Age, Twentyfourth day of Urimë

Yet again, Sauron fell. But this time it is different/The losses have been heavy and still, there is one last battle to fight.

Soon after, I got to rejoin my brothers, my father and grandfather, the King of Gondor, Elendir Voronda, in front of Barad-Dûr, the black tower from where Sauron ruled his realm of darkness. He hid there after his last defeat, and got out for his last fight, where the united forces of Elves and Men did crush him one last time. It is useless to say once again that we won, for it is a pale replacement of relief for me. From one corner of Middle Earth to another, the news where spreading. My father took the place of the kind, for what it implied. My grandfather fell under the blows of the Ennemy, so did other kings, so did men, tenfold, thousandfold. 

My father seems distant. He's always been there, as long as I can remmeber, never changing. Tall and strong to say it again. I feel like he isn't my father anymore, his my Lord Father, the King. I wonder if it's by pure form that he's speaking to his third son. He's got an heir, his got another one just in case. All is well. In a way, I see an end to my torment as I hope for peace after this last travel. We're heading to Rivendell for some discussions with the new King, and for our king, to see his wife, his last son too. Another one. 

My father, ever so proud, ever so mighty. My father, growing distant, telling us about his ring he hopes becoming his heirloom. 

Year 1 of the Third Age, 1st day of Nénimë

I nearly wrote a Second Age entry yet again. It's such a big change for everyone. My father as king, my brothers as captains, and so am I. Well the only difference is that they did earn their titles while fighting. 

To my susprise, my father does not really works as a king, he does however spend days and nights writing and rumbling to himself about his jewel he did find on the battlefield. My brothers had never got any better chance to share things, as we are sharing duties, papers to sign, laws to pass, watches to fulfill and hours and hours to spend dealing with common folk. I did do that sometimes, long ago. In times of war, people become compliant, in times of peace however, farmers become restless and soldiers do have a hard time separating them as they are tearing each other's face for a stolen sheep (which had just lost itself, to state the end of the matter). 

We are heading for Rivendell in a fortnight, there is still so much to do. I couldn't think of anything with all that work; my brothers worry for the separation of our two great Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. 

“Orcs ! ” the cry bellowed across the woods. 

My heart races as I glares in every direction, ready to unsheathe my sword. Growlings heard and men are vigilant, sword in hand. As I do the same, the first beasts are already jumping out of the bushes. 

Am I going to fight ? To die ? The stupid idea rush through my mind and I can't just control it. It is all too quick. A cold shiver goes down my spine and I can't say a word. 

“ Aratan, you stay with Ciryon while I deal with those horrors !”

All too quickly, I manage to think, to nod while my older brother throws himself into the fight, hastily. In thuth, he does not makes his horse advance from two steps as arrows whistle in the air. He's so tall, so proud, his sword lashes his ennemies. 

Our convey will never reach Rivendell, I dare to think as my brother falls, stung by so many arrows. 

I cannot find my father, my hand grasps my sword and soon, tears come, burning my eyes, my horse is hard to hold still, I too wish to run away but I do not. I feel a bump in my should, turn my head and see Aratan, sword drawn and smile to his lips. His pale blue eyes are mad with something, I think about vengeance, but also fear, maybe. I cannot think properly now. He'd make such a king... And it is my duty to protect him at all costs. 

He soon falls to the ground and I yell, going down, to the first opponent I see. Close to him, and closer again, slashing my way through. Blood drips on my hands and sword. I do not care, I must reach for him. 

“Aratan, for the love of the Valar, you wake up, now !!” 

I do not think one second of the crazyness of that last sentence. I grasps his collar with my left hand, he's lying on his side. Managing to turn him on the back, I can but stare at him, his empty open eyes, blood driping from his mouth and nose, but alive. Muttering words I cannot hear. A spear is embedded in his flesh, under his right shoulder and slowly moves with each one of his desperate gasps for air. 

Someone must help us, I think as soldiers are falling everywhere around us. My hand closes tightly on my brother's, he does grasps mine too, but the strength grow fainter and fainter again. I gasps his name, as a sharp pain strucks me from the back and I fall. Coughing, failing to breathe properly, I cannot think to describe the pain and all of this, surrounding me. Everything that matters is my brother, his eyes, now looking into the void of death, Elendur is near, I can feel it. Maybe he'll save us all, who knows ? 

I try to get up, first on my elbows, then with my hands, but strength is leaving me. I have to warn someone, I still can. But I fall again, and stumble, the taste of blood on my tongue. 

Why is my father away, why now ? 

My sight grows blurry, those aren't tears anymore. Each pulse of my heart brings more pain coming from every part of my body. I see shapes in front of me, dragging myself with my gloved hands on the dirt while my blood splatters the ground. Reaching them is all what counts. Please, for once I just want the strength to rejoin them. Let my brother be kings. But let me be by their side, as nothing, as common folk. Let me see my mother again, and my father. Let me cast his treasures and his selfishness into the fire or deep into the sea. I would like to... I'd want to...

Ciryon, third son of Isildur, then King of Arnor, died in the events later called the Disaster or the Gladden Fields, then ringing the deathbell for the kings of Gondor and Arnor. Nobody knew what became of the corpses after the battle, Saruman made numerous searches for them but would have only found Isildur's. As for the three brothers, Elendur, Aratan and Ciryon, history does not mention their name further. Isildur's brother Anarion received the crown of the Kingdom of Gondor while Valandil received the Crown of Arnor.  


**Author's Note:**

> It's still going to be corrected I think ; the basic work dates from 2010 and it may still contain (like, surely contain) various innacurracies, I have encountered many already when rewriting the whole crap. Sorry, I mean, REALLY SORRY for my english, it's a translation and I could study english for years, it still wouldn't change anything. 
> 
> Thanks for reading !


End file.
